


Faking It

by PhiraLovesLoki



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, F/M, Fake Marriage, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-21 05:04:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11350437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhiraLovesLoki/pseuds/PhiraLovesLoki
Summary: Killian Jones had just been joking when he'd told Emma Swan they were actually married. But in his defense, the doctors hadn't mentioned that her concussion had given her amnesia.





	Faking It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lifeinahole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lifeinahole/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Sarah! You've been an incredible friend to me, and I'm so happy that you're in my life! I hope you enjoy this story.
> 
> From the prompt: "You're my best friend who's just waking up from a concussion, I played a trick on you and said we were married and you have amnesia ... but you just rolled with it and now I don't know what to do."
> 
> Thanks to optomisticgirl for the beta-read!

Killian had never been so terrified in his whole life. He’d _known_ something like this would happen eventually, he’d _warned_ her countless times, he’d made _sure_ to have a plan in place. And yet when it finally happened, he felt entirely blindsided and paralyzed with fear.

Emma Swan was in the hospital.

The doctors had very little information for him when he arrived, given that the only information _they_ had was from the EMTs, and the EMTs had arrived at the scene because some good Samaritan had found a woman unconscious in an alleyway downtown. They’d known to call him because the woman’s phone had emergency information accessible, and his was the only number on the list.

Which was because he’d _known_ this would eventually happen, and so one night when she’d fallen asleep while watching a movie with him, he’d pilfered her phone and set himself up as her emergency contact.

Bloody fucking hell.

It had to have been that skip she’d been tracing for a couple of weeks now. It was all August’s fault; the man should have switched her to another case when she’d been made trying to catch the bloke with a honey trap. But Emma had insisted on continuing and August had just shrugged and let her.

She’d texted him earlier, while he’d been at the office, to let him know she had a lead on the fellow. She always texted him in these sorts of situations, because after one too many nights worrying about her safety, he’d begged her to. And now, hours later, he was sitting in a waiting room, experiencing the worst case scenario he had dreaded throughout their entire friendship.

The skip must have turned violent, because her injuries were much too severe to have been caused by a simple fall. Well, there was the ankle sprain that probably _had_ been an accident; he suspected that she’d likely tripped, resulting in her foe’s advantage over her.

Which was the best explanation for the black eye, the concussion, and the arm fracture so severe, she’d required surgery to repair it. He guessed that the skip had known he’d be in even more trouble, having brutally assaulted someone, and had hidden her in the alley to escape responsibility.

She’d only remained unconscious for a short period of time, and given that her concussion wasn’t too severe, the doctors believed that she was found almost immediately afterwards, and that even if she hadn’t been, she would have awoken quickly enough to get herself to safety on her own.

But to Killian, his beloved Swan had been left to die in an alleyway, and she might have perished before he could ever confess to her that his feelings for her were no longer platonic.

Not that he was eager to tell her _now._ It was almost absurd, that she could have _died_ without knowing how he felt, and now he couldn’t even imagine telling her. He was just scared and _angry._ Angry that the scenario he’d been terrified of had finally come to pass, angry that August hadn’t made the right decisions, angry that Emma had rebuffed his concerns.

He’d been _right_ to be afraid. He’d been _right_ that this would happen. And now it had, and he was actually _angry_ at the woman he loved for it.

He shook his head at himself. He needed to temper his anger before she came out of surgery.

He’d already called August, partially to curse prolifically at him for his role in this disaster, but also to arrange for the extensive disability leave Swan would now require. While August wasn’t always a stellar employer, he wasn’t enough of a fool to ignore the necessities of working in bail bonds: all of his employees had excellent health and disability insurance.

It was almost a relief that the doctors already planned on keeping her overnight for observation. He would remain here until she was awake, and then he’d leave temporarily to prepare for her homecoming. He didn’t think she’d object to staying with him; with her combination of injuries, she would need someone around to take care of her. And his building had an elevator; with her injuries, she’d likely need a wheelchair, and while _she_ would probably insist she could handle stairs, _he_ wasn’t about to let her.

He’d have to speak to Arthur about time off, but he’d accrued plenty of vacation time and rarely used any of it. He just needed to determine if it would be better to take a few entire weeks off to care for Swan, do three full days a week, or perhaps work half-days until she was well enough. First he’d see what the doctors suggested, and then he’d approach Arthur with his preferences. There were Emma’s wishes to consider as well, but perhaps if she didn’t want him taking care of her, she shouldn’t have nearly gotten herself murdered in an alleyway.

Bloody hell, he needed to calm down.

“Mr. Jones?” His head shot up; Emma’s primary doctor was in the doorway. “We’re ready for you.”

His heart raced as he trailed behind the doctor. He hadn’t seen her since he’d arrived, and so he braced himself for the worst.

As he entered the room and saw her, his heart sank. She just looked so … small and fragile, hair a mess, eye spectacularly bruised, all sorts of tubes and wires attached to her. Her left arm was covered in bandages, making it look absurdly bigger than her right. She was awake, blinking at him with a dazed expression.

“Emma,” he breathed.

She smiled. “Hey.” Her voice was a croak.

“I need to read off some instructions and information,” the doctor explained to her. “I brought your husband up here because you’re still recovering from anesthesia, so you might not remember this conversation.”

Emma’s mouth opened slightly, and Killian was about to interrupt to correct the doctor, but the doctor hadn’t noticed the mistake. Instead, he began to rattle off lots of information, including how to care for her arm, what symptoms of her concussion to expect, when to call for advice, when to come to the emergency room, and when to come back for follow-ups. He then handed off a stack of paperwork to Killian. “I’ll give you some time alone. Nurse should be in to check on her in about twenty minutes.” And that was it.

“I must have hit my head harder than I thought,” Emma said. She cleared her throat and grimaced. “I don’t remember getting married.”

Looking back, Killian would have liked to say that he had some kind of grand plan. Or that he thought it would make a good joke. But in the moment, his fear and anger got the best of him. Here was his best friend, a woman too stubborn to look after herself properly, who seemed determined to scare him to death by nearly causing her own.

“Well, you don’t remember a lot of things when you have amnesia following a concussion,” he said bitterly.

She frowned. “Wait, seriously?”

“Oh, yes,” he continued. “We’ve been married for a year, Swan.”

He waited for her to scoff, to call him out, to snap at him. He was waiting for her to read his expression, to use her superpower—her ability to detect lies—and know he wasn’t telling the truth. Most importantly, he waited for her to realize just how upset he was over the situation, to see how afraid he was, to see just what she’d put him through.

Her face fell, and for a moment he relaxed; she must have figured out how worried he was for her. “Oh my god, Killian, I’m so sorry.” She covered her face with her right hand. “God, I’m so sorry.” Good, there it was. “I can’t believe I can’t remember our wedding.”

Oh no.

“Emma.”

“No, I mean, _god,_ Killian, they _warned_ me that this could happen. I just figured I was fine since I knew what year it is and everything.” She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “I can’t even remember _dating_ you! This is terrible!”

His mouth was open, but he wasn’t sure what to say. He hadn’t expect her to actually _believe_ him. It was barely even a joke—just a snide remark born out of his anger.

But she looked so small and broken, and he recognized the expression on her face: she was about to cry. And the thought of her crying caused his anger to practically evaporate. Whatever emotional hell he’d been through, _she_ was the one in a hospital bed, recovering from an assault.

“It’s okay—it’s okay, love,” he said, rushing to her side. He couldn’t quite gather her in his arms, or even kiss her hair, given the extent of her injuries and the awkwardness of the IV and monitors. But he did the best he could to soothe her. “I’m just so glad you’re safe.”

“Me, too.” She sighed into him. Her tears soaked his shirt. “I know I don’t remember being together, but I love you.”

He swallowed hard and tried not to let on that she’d said anything particularly momentous. “I love you, too.”

He never imagined that he’d say those words to her for the first time under such circumstances, and he’d never dreamt that hearing those words from her would bring him anything but joy and relief. But it was his own damn fault.

And now he was going to have to figure out how to handle the fact that he’d somehow convinced Emma Swan that she was his wife.

* * *

“It’s good to be home,” Emma said as he wheeled her into the flat. “Are you sure Arthur’s okay with you taking so much time off?” She was referring to the week off and subsequent half-days for the rest of the month he’d managed to secure.

“Aye, now stop fretting,” Killian replied. He was trying very hard not to be too short with her, but it was difficult to tamp down his anxiety. Would she notice the lack of wedding photos? Or wonder why some of her belongings were missing? Regarding the former, he couldn’t seem to bring himself to Photoshop anything, and as for the latter, he’d spent nearly every hour out of the hospital carting her personal effects from her flat to his, and then setting it all up as best he could.

He’d barely slept, and he’d gotten a complaint from management when he’d been hammering at six o’clock in the morning, trying to put up some of the artwork he’d pilfered from Swan’s living room.

“I think I want to nap,” she continued. “If that’s okay.”

“Of course it is.”

“You should, too. You look exhausted. Wasn’t the whole point of coming home last night was so you could sleep in a real bed?”

“It’s hard to sleep when you’re as worried as I was.” At least he could take solace in the fact that if he _hadn’t_ been up all night trying to execute a terrible plan, he likely would have been awake, thinking about her.

“Rest with me?”

“We’ll see. Let’s get you squared away first; it’s almost time for you to take pain meds.”

“Ugh, right. I hate those.”

He chuckled as he wheeled her into the bedroom. “Aye, but they do the trick.”

“They give me nightmares that I can’t remember.” She flashed a grin at him. “Guess you’ll just have to hold me, babe.”

He swallowed hard. “That I will. Now, let’s get you into bed.”

If he hadn’t been so nervous about the consequences of his angry comment gone awry, he would have been proud of himself. The bedroom looked exactly like the one he’d always imagined he and Emma might share, with a mix of their bedlinens, photos of them on the walls, a mix of personal effects strewn about. Granted, she might notice that none of the large pieces of furniture were hers, but if she opened the drawers of his dresser, she’d find that half of them contained her clothes, neatly folded and organized.

If she found it strange, he’d just make a comment about how it was his chore to fold and put away the laundry. It was certainly believable, given how often she liked to tease him for his propensity for tidiness. It was affectionate at least, and she seemed to appreciate it whenever he’d come over and almost subconsciously straighten up her flat.

“Ugh, I really need to change,” she said as she hopped out of the wheelchair and leaned against the bed. “Can you grab me some pajamas? And new underwear?” She grimaced. “God, maybe I should shower.”

“You can’t really,” he reminded her, before moving to the dresser to find the appropriate clothing items. “We’ll need to figure something out. It’ll be hard enough for you to balance, and then you need to keep your left arm free.”

“Ooh, sponge bath from a hot nurse,” she said. “We should get you an outfit.”

Bloody hell, he hadn’t thought about this at all. If he hadn’t made her believe they were married, he’d probably be calling up one of her female friends to help her bathe. But if he was supposed to be her husband, then seeing her nude wouldn’t be strange at all, and she’d _expect_ that he’d be okay with it.

Oh, she was _never_ going to forgive him for this.

He turned around, fresh clothing in hand, ready to tell the truth, to apologize, to _beg_ forgiveness, and hope that she would think it was quite funny how much effort he’d put into the ruse.

But she had already removed her shirt. And as he turned around, she finished unhooking her bra. It fell forward, and he was seeing Emma Swan’s breasts for the first time.

She looked up at him, with one eyebrow raised, genuinely confused. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, his mouth dry. He stepped over to her, heart pounding, with her pajamas. She lifted her arms up expectantly. Right, pajama top. He helped her pull on the embarrassingly tiny camisole.

But then it got worse. “Help me get these off?” she asked, gesturing at her jeans. “Maybe I’ll just change my panties and sleep like that. It’s not like I need pants.”

“True.” He never imagined that he’d ever in his life _not_ want to unbutton Emma’s skin-tight jeans and peel them off of her, and yet here he was. Punishment for his crime.

No, punishment for his crime was helping her wriggle out of her damn knickers and wriggle into fresh ones.

He’d gone and done it. He’d seen every inch of Emma Swan’s naked body, including her sex. The already inappropriate situation he’d concocted had officially veered into unforgivable territory.

“Okay,” she said, crawling under the sheets. She groaned.

“You okay? Emma?”

“No, it’s just _so_ much more comfortable than the hospital,” she said. “No pain—well, pain’s the same. Didn’t hurt myself getting in.” She stretched a bit. “So painkillers?”

“Aye, let me get you some water for them as well.”

In the kitchen, he took the opportunity to drink a glass of water himself; his mouth and throat were still parched from the situation he’d found himself in. He filled a glass for her, grabbed the paper bags with the prescriptions, and headed back to the bedroom. “All right,” he said, setting the glass down beside her and fiddling with the bags and bottles. “Two oxycodone for now, and I’ll write down the time. You can take more in six hours if you want.”

“I won’t,” she said. “I’m only doing this because you’re making me.”

“And I’ll keep making you,” he countered. “There’s also a laxative you need to take.” She snorted. “Swan, trust me, you’ll want to take this.”

“Whatever.” He handed her the pills, and she popped them in her mouth before grabbing the glass. “All right, I took them. Can I nap?”

He sighed. “Of course. Just give me a shout when you need something.”

“You’re not gonna nap with me? And _don’t_ say you’re not tired because I can tell you are. You know better than to lie to me.”

He almost bit his tongue so he couldn’t point out the lie he’d already gotten away with. “Just—all right.” He moved to the other side of the bed to climb in.

“What, fully dressed? Come on, babe.”

Oh bloody hell. “Right.” He quickly tossed his shirt, jeans, and socks in the hamper before grabbing flannel bottoms from the dresser. She’d seen him shirtless enough times that he shouldn’t have felt as exposed as he did. But now, he knew that she’d expect to see him naked and not have it mean anything special, and he was dreading it.

He got in beside her, and she reached out for him. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Oh, darling, you know I always will.” True regardless of the status of their relationship. He hoped she remembered that when she inevitably found out that they weren’t married.

“I love you.” His heart stuttered in his chest.

“And I you.”

He didn’t deserve to have her fall asleep in his arms.

* * *

“I can’t wait to wear my rings again,” Emma said as they ate dinner.

“They’re waiting for you whenever you’re ready.” The doctor had recommended she wait until the stitches were out before she wore rings, due to swelling from surgery. But Killian had purchased a set, just in case, and put them in a ring dish in the bedroom. Emma had bought his lie that she preferred to take them off when she was working, and her wistful tone regarding them made his heart ache for this to be real.

The bloody rings certainly were, including the one he had to buy for himself. Granted, he’d opted for something affordable, but even ten karat white gold bands and a white sapphire in the engagement ring had cost a lot more money than he ever should have been spending on a fake marriage. Especially a fake marriage to a woman who didn’t realize it was fake.

He was going to hell, that was for sure.

“We can try watching a movie,” she suggested. “I know the doctors said that it might be hard for me to concentrate, but I can just nap on you if I need to.”

He chuckled. “Not much different than normal.”

“True.” She smiled, before setting down her fork and reaching across the table to take his hand. “Killian?”

“Aye?”

She blinked, and he realized she was holding back tears. “I just … you know how alone I’ve been almost my whole life. Before you. And I mean … when we were just friends, I always thought I was the luckiest person on the planet, but I was always kind of scared that you were going to leave.” Now she _was_ crying a bit. “I know I don’t remember getting together or getting married, and I hope you don’t hate me for it—”

“Oh, Emma—Emma, love, don’t cry—”

“Please, let me finish.” She took a deep breath, clearly trying to settle herself. “I know I don’t remember being together, but I’m just … I’m really glad I have you.” She smiled weakly before withdrawing her hand to scrub the tears from her cheeks. “Sorry, too emotional?”

He let out his breath. “Never.”

She snorted in disbelief before picking her fork back up.

After they ate, he carried her to the sofa and put on one of her favorite movies before sitting beside her and tucking her against him. It was strangely more intimate than it ever had been, even though she’d leaned her head on his shoulder countless times on this very couch in this very situation.

Well, perhaps not this _very_ situation. Typically, she was uninjured and not under the misapprehension that she was married to him.

They were halfway through the film when her head fell forward and she gasped.

“You all right, love?”

“Nightmare,” she breathed. “I fucking hate opioids.”

Right, she’d taken a dose right after dinner. “I’m sorry, Swan, but you have to take them. I know you don’t think you do, but the pain will be quite severe if you stop.”

“I know. Ugh. Maybe I should go to bed.”

“I’ll help you.” He glanced at the clock. “Maybe I’ll join you. It’s late, and you’re right that I slept poorly last night. The nap didn’t quite refresh me.”

“Don’t carry me,” she warned. “I mean, you can help me walk and stuff, but I already feel like a useless lump.”

“If you start to fall, I will absolutely carry you,” he warned. He hoped that she didn’t; she still was clad in just her camisole and knickers, and holding her while she was in such a state of undress felt nearly obscene.

She nearly wobbled over halfway to the bathroom; with a sigh, he scooped her up, trying very hard not to blush at the feeling of her bare legs under his fingertips.

She snuggled up to him once they were in bed. “Mmm, maybe I don’t want to sleep.”

He froze. “Doctor’s orders, love—no funny business.”

“Uh, not exactly,” she said. “I remember what he said yesterday after surgery. I wasn’t _that_ out of it. He said that we should just be careful, and that if my head started hurting we should stop.”

“I don’t want to be responsible for your condition worsening.” Bad enough that he’d lied, bad enough that he’d lied _out of spite,_ bad enough that he’d pilfered her belongings from her flat, bad enough that he’d _seen her naked._ He was not going to take advantage of her like this.

“You won’t even kiss me?” she asked, and her tone was no longer assertive, or even teasing.

She sounded miserable. Alone. Unwanted.

Just one kiss. Just one. He very carefully pulled her to him. Just one kiss, and then tomorrow he would find a way to tell her the truth.

He’d imagined their first kiss hundreds of times. Given how damn attracted to her he was, and how long he’d been burning for her, he assumed that such a first kiss would be madly passionate, with one of them almost throwing the other against a wall or some other flat surface.

Rarely did he imagine that it would be so slow, so tender, so gentle.

It was partially to avoid hurting her, but he had to admit, it was partially because this was the only kiss he was going to get from Emma Swan after what he’d done. He wanted to savor it, to have it be as romantic and loving as possible, so that perhaps, when all was said and done, she would believe him when he confessed his feelings and take pity on him.

“There you go,” she whispered when they parted. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“I’m not the one concussed, darling.”

“True.” She yawned. “I love you, Killian.”

He closed his eyes and hated himself. “I love you more, Emma.”

She chuckled. “I know.” And then she wriggled out of his arms and went to sleep.

* * *

Killian awoke to the sound of a hushed conversation and an empty bed. He sat up. Emma’s wheelchair was still in the room; she’d obviously hobbled out to the living room. He quickly climbed out of bed and headed for the door before stopping short.

She was on the phone with someone, clearly trying to keep her voice down, but he could hear her quite clearly through the door.

“I _know,_ Mary Margaret.”

Ah, Mary Margaret. She was probably chiding Emma over the skip.

Wait.

Mary Margaret, who would _know_ something was wrong if Emma let slip any reference to being _married._

He reached for the handle, but then—

“He kissed me.”

Her voice was softer, like she was embarrassed, or telling Mary Margaret a huge secret. He paused.

“It was amazing. God, it’s just not fair.”

What?

He heard her irritated huff. “He lied first! What was I supposed to do?”

He blinked. And then again. And then—

Oh, _bloody buggering fuck._

He burst out of the bedroom to find Emma sitting on the couch, ankle and left arm elevated, phone against her ear, and eyes wide. “Uh,” she said, staring at him, “I have to call you back.” She quickly hung up.

“You _knew?”_

She rolled her eyes. “For fuck’s sake, Killian, I always know when you’re lying!”

“I know that!”

“So you’re just mad that I played you!”

“Why the bloody hell did you? Fuck, Swan, do you know how awful this has been?”

“You started it!” she reminded him. “I’m lying in a fucking hospital bed, in a ton of pain, and you come in and try to make me feel bad?”

“I was not—do you have _any_ idea what it’s like, Emma? To get that phone call? To rush to the hospital with no information besides that you were found _unconscious in an alley?_ To walk in and see you like that?”

She cradled her head in her right hand and grimaced. “Oh god.”

“Exactly, Swan. _Exactly._ I have _never_ been—”

“No, my head.”

The doctor had warned her that loud noises would trigger concussion symptoms, and here he was shouting at her. “Did you take your oxycodone yet?”

“Yeah, I wrote it on the list.”

“Okay, give me a second.” He rushed into the bathroom to grab some paracetamol. “Here, this might help. Let me close some of the shades. Do you need a glass of water?”

“Thanks. No, I’m good, I can swallow them dry.”

Once the room was suitably darker, she shifted on the couch so he could sit beside her. “Okay,” he said, breathing deeply. “I’m sorry, love. I shouldn’t have lied to make you feel guilty. I just …” He sighed and stared at the coffee table. “I can’t imagine losing you. You’re the most important person in my life.”

“I’m going to tell Liam you said that.”

He chuckled. “You say that as though he doesn’t already know.”

She gave a soft giggle of her own. “Fair enough.” She leaned against him. “I’m sorry, too. I know how worried you get about me, and I didn’t want to admit you were right about that skip. I was feeling super defensive—I knew you were pissed, and it felt really unfair.”

“I know.”

“I was gonna come clean, you know,” she added. “When we got here. But then I saw what you did with the place.”

“You’re not—”

“No, I’m mostly impressed.” He smiled. “Although you actually almost had me for a second.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, the whole time until we walked in the door, I knew I didn’t _actually_ have amnesia, and then we came in here and it was like … wait, maybe I _do_ live here? It _looks_ like I live here. But then I saw how nervous you were, like I was going to figure you out any second.”

He laughed, a little too loud; she cringed. “Sorry, love. You all right?”

“Yeah, it’s just like … headache from hell.”

“I’ll be quieter,” he promised. “But yes, I was quite nervous. If you’d asked about wedding photos, I’m not sure what I would have done.”

“You did a good job,” she promised. “This is basically what I imagined it would look like if we lived together.”

There was something about the language she used, the way she said what she said, that made him wonder. And then there was the conversation with Mary Margaret.

“Why did you go along with it?” he asked gently. “Besides the obvious.”

“What’s the obvious?”

“To punish me.”

She didn’t answer, and he knew why. “Emma?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

He rolled his eyes, glad she couldn’t see his expression. “No, I mean, I _love_ you.”

“Oh,” she whispered.

There it was, out in the open. He’d told her, and it couldn’t just be brushed aside as something said to keep up a charade. His true feelings, the reason why he’d been so terrified, so angry, at the prospect of losing her. And now, it was up to her.

“I wanted to see what it was like,” she finally said. “To be with you. And then if it was bad, or if you didn’t feel the same way, it could just be part of the act.”

He frowned. “What does that mean?”

She let out an irritated sigh and reached for his hand, intertwining their fingers. “For someone without a concussion, you’re pretty dense.”

Oh. He squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back. “Well, you’ll have to forgive me. I’ve been a little too focused on taking care of my invalid wife.”

“I’m never letting you live this down.”

“I’ve absolutely earned that.”

“Killian?”

“Aye?”

“I love you, too.”

The pain and guilt he’d felt the first time she’d said those words to him melted away, and he carefully draped his arm around her.

* * *

“It’s in the wrong place,” Emma said between mouthfuls of lo mein.

“It is _not—_ Swan, there is nothing wrong with it.”

“It needs to go about half a foot to the left, so you can put the matching photo next to it.”

“How about we compromise,” Killian said, glaring at her. “And we just have _this_ photo up. It looks fine on its own.”

“They are a set,” she said firmly. “It looks stupid having just the photo of Mary Margaret with Leo and _not_ the one of David and Leo. They were a set at my place, and they’re a set here. It’s not my fault you only brought one over before.”

“Let me make sure I understand,” he said slowly, trying to keep his temper in check. “You want me to take this photo down, remove the hanger, spackle the hole, sand it, repaint it, and then re-hang this photo a half foot to the left so I can hang a second photo on the right?”

“Yep.”

“Emma, that’s absurd.”

“Remember last week when you lied to me and told me I had amnesia and didn’t remember we were married?”

He sighed. “Aye. I’ll get the damn spackle.”

“Hey,” she said, and she was suddenly very serious. “You know I’m happy about this, right?”

“What, the amnesia debacle?”

She rolled her eyes. “No, I mean … us. Being together. Living together.”

Suddenly, there was nothing he wanted more than to spackle the wall and move the photo. They were _living_ together. He’d spent the past couple of days bringing over the rest of her belongings; the furniture she planned to keep would be coming over in a few days, when he could borrow David’s truck. Moving a photo so that this would be their home together was now a task he desired to complete.

He smiled. “I love you.”

Her smile was like sunshine. “I love you, too.”

* * *

A month later, Emma Swan returned to work, stitches out and swelling gone, wearing the engagement ring.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this story, and I'd love to hear what you think!


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